Bulls coach Scott Skiles talks with Michael Sweetney during a break in action during their game against the Raptors at United Center on April 19, 2006.

Bulls coach Scott Skiles talks with Michael Sweetney during a break in action during their game against the Raptors at United Center on April 19, 2006.

(Nuccio DiNuzzo / Chicago Tribune)

Dan SteinbergThe Washington Post

Michael Sweetney easily ticks off some of the lowest moments from the dozen years after he left Georgetown. The times he would depart an NBA arena at 11 or midnight and go grab some pizza or a cheeseburger, trying to make himself feel better. His fourth and final NBA season, when he averaged 3.2 points and 2.5 rebounds a game for the Chicago Bulls in 2007 and began to think of himself as a failure. The time his wife said that something needed to change, or else Sweetney would lose his family, too. The time he packed up his car and left home on Thanksgiving weekend, becoming a nomad for several months, sleeping in local parking lots, driving to suburbs such as Columbia, Maryland, where fewer people would recognize him, spending his days just trying to be alone and anonymous. The time he contemplated suicide.

"I was so bad and so deep, man; I needed professional help," Sweetney said this week. "I felt like I didn't want to be around nobody. I just felt bad. I felt like I failed the media; I felt like I failed myself, my family. It just took me to a bad place."

Those months spent away from home, seven years ago this fall, were among his lowest lows. Since then, Sweetney and his wife have had three children. He has seen assorted medical professionals and learned that he had suffered from depression throughout his NBA career. He began speaking out about what he endured, first to family members, then to the New York Post last summer and eventually to D.C.-area high school kids, college students, companies and church groups. He also began working with umttr, a local youth-led group formed in response to a teen suicide, which aims to prevent similar tragedies.

And Friday night, he will host his first celebrity basketball game, aiming to raise money for the group and awareness for mental health. That's why Sweetney was detailing these painful life stories inside a stuffy UDC gym Thursday morning between carrying boxes of gear around and sprucing up the locker rooms for friends such as Pops Mensah-Bonsu, Chris Wright, James Gist and D'Qwell Jackson. ("You're sweating, daddy!" his 18-month-old daughter pointed out.)

"It's been years in the making, so being here right now and watching him do this, it's kind of incredible," said his wife, India, who has been with Sweetney since they were teenagers at Oxon Hill High. "He was always making people laugh, always making people around him happy. But he was suffering so bad, and I was at home, so I saw it first-hand. ... There are no words for how bad it got and the place he was."

After starring for three years at Georgetown, Sweetney was drafted No. 9 overall by the New York Knicks, prompting immediate Patrick Ewing comparisons. But Sweetney's father, who had guided him into basketball, died of a heart attack shortly before his first training camp. This, Sweetney said, triggered years of depression he now thinks submarined his career.

He had battled with his weight dating from high school before getting it under control at Georgetown, but as he tried to get a foothold in the NBA, he lost that control. During his two seasons with the Knicks and two more with the Bulls, Sweetney's size was a constant concern.

Courtesy of the Sweetney family

Michael Sweetney with his wife and children.

Michael Sweetney with his wife and children.

(Courtesy of the Sweetney family)

"A lot of people when they get depressed, they can go to anger. Some people go to drugs; some people go to alcohol," he said. "For me, food was my drug. That was my cure. Anything that's not good for your body, I was eating it -- whatever I could find."

His playing time fluctuated, and his production was erratic. He had been in a draft class that included LeBron James, Carmelo Anthony, Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh; "I'm seeing those guys take off, and I'm averaging six points, eight points," he said. "I felt like a failure, and that just sent me over the edge."

He twice attempted NBA comebacks that ended in training camp, and he played professionally in Latin America, without acknowledging his underlying issues.

Eventually -- after Sweetney spent those months essentially living out of his car, seeing his wife only sporadically -- she gave him an ultimatum, which finally led him to seek professional help. He resisted the suggestion of medication and said he didn't make significant progress until he spent several months playing basketball in Uruguay, where he saw a psychiatrist almost daily and began finding ways to deal with his depression. His reaction to the diagnosis?

"I kind of knew," he said. "I just probably needed to hear it from somebody else for me to say, 'Okay, you know what? It's real.' "

After telling his story to the New York Post last summer, Sweetney heard from scores of athletes who had their own struggles with depression or who had family members with mental illness or who just wanted to reach out. Among them was former George Washington standout Chris Monroe. Monroe had become friends with Susan Rosenstock, whose son Evan played basketball at Churchill High before his stunning suicide in 2013. That led to the formation of umttr, an education and prevention project founded by Susan Rosenstock and several of Evan's friends.

Monroe wanted Sweetney and Rosenstock to meet, and they bonded instantly. Sweetney now calls Rosenstock one of his best friends, and they have talked on the phone almost daily in the past year.

Sweetney became the group's "celebrity spokesperson," which led to speaking engagements around the area. Appearances that are supposed to last one hour instead last three; Rosenstock said teenagers are transfixed by Sweetney's story.

DOUGLAS C. PIZAC / Associated Press

DOUGLAS C. PIZAC / Associated Press

"The kids look and say, 'Well, if he was brave enough to get help, then I can get help, too,' " she said. "He hooks them in, and he does really grasp them. I mean, every time I've heard him, I'm grasped by him, too."

Sweetney said he anticipates doing such work for the rest of his life. He thinks his NBA career would have lasted far longer had he gotten help earlier, that he might even still be playing in the league. But he works out daily, jogging near the family's Fort Washington home or taking spin classes. And he said he's "in a great place right now" and that "helping others is helping me."

"A lot of people suffer in silence, which I did, for years," he said. "I just try to build awareness and say hey, talk, get that help, see that psychiatrist or get that medication. Don't suffer in silence. Because it's never going to end well."